Yeah the high art and Renaissance splendour is OK, I guess. But I'm here for the pasta.

En español abajo.

Habits can be easy to form and hard to break. That’s what’s happened with this blog lately, as I’ve lapsed into the habit of thinking about writing articles instead of actually writing them, then regarding it as too late to put into words what I wanted to write about once it finally occurred to me to do so.

I also worry that it gets a bit self-indulgent if it’s about my travels with my partner, for example, which is lately what I’ve mainly got to talk about. We did a bit of a tour of Andalucia in October, getting to know a part of Spain I’d never been to either as a visitor to this country or a resident. We saw some sights of incredible beauty, both natural and man-made, rich and layered in history and greatly relevant in Spain, and Europe’s, history. I got some photos of some of this stuff, though I worry if they did them justice, and will put some of that down in the next entry. 

But I started writing this on a plane, on my way back from a week-and-a-bit’s trip to Italy. I’d suggested a long weekend in Siena to my other half, as it was a place I’d heard good things about and wanted to visit. She took that idea and quickly turned it into nine days that took in Florence - a favourite of ours - Siena, Pisa, Lucca and various other places, travelling around by train. So, in the face of some pretty dire weather forecasts, off we went.

Those who know me well are aware that Italian cuisine is my absolute number one. I’d happily eat pasta every day of my life, with a good Carbonara being my final meal of choice, should I ever find myself in that unfortunate position. So I’m always a very happy and slightly more rotund individual when we come back from Italy and this occasion has proved no exception. A few reflections on what we saw and I’ll leave you in peace.

Firstly, the trains. There’s a horrible saying about Mussolini, that whatever this faults, at least he made the trains run on time. This doesn’t offer a particularly positive preconception of public transport in the country. Well my experience of Italian trains, with him thankfully long gone, is that they’re punctual, pretty reliable and run across an extensive network that will get you pretty much anywhere you want to go in the country.

Pisa. You think first, and possibly only, of the tower, of course. Reading about it beforehand, its apparently leaning at four degrees off the vertical. That didn’t sound like much to me, and from the angle we first approached it, with it leaning toward us, it didn’t look particularly noticeable. But get the right side of it, and bloody hell. It really leans. It’s an impressive building in its own right, both typical of the grandiose architecture of its age – all marble and columns – and simultaneously atypical of the norm, in that the church, baptistry and tower on the site are all separate, where they’re usually found combined into single buildings that soften the cruciform shape of the church’s outline.

Doesn't look too lean-y from this angle, does it?

But when you get there, it's either really
leaning or the whole city's on the piss.

Everyone, and I mean everyone, does that thing where they pretend to hold it up in their photos. (I’m the exception that proves that 

rule, of course.) They line up to do it. My 

missus and I had a little bet on whether a 

group of South American nuns would do so - 

I maintained they wouldn’t, and lost. But they’d clearly never seen any photos of what it was they were trying to achieve, and all had their arms at different angles. It looked more like 

the world’s worst YMCA dance performed by 

a stag do, than what they were going for.

Pisa was otherwise pleasant enough, 

with plenty of old town to keep us interested, 

but was otherwise notable mainly for the unbelievably good pizza we had on the last night before flying home. Where else did we go? I’m glad you asked.

Siena was gorgeous. The central square, 

the Campo, where they run the famous Palio, 

didn’t disappoint - I can only imagine what it’s like when filled with the sound and fury of the race days. From there, a bus journey to San Gimignano, the Manhattan of Tuscany, a tiny place where wealthy Medieval families engaged in financial willy waving of the architectural kind, competing to see who could have the most impressive tower. So you’ve got this New York-type skyline rising out of the Tuscan landscape from what’s basically a dot on the map. Completely overwhelmed with tourists in the summer by all accounts, it was deserted when we went and very peaceful.

Ahh, Siena.

Lucca, where the locals walk or cycle the 4km perimeter of the intact defensive walls from the same period. A small place inside those walls, with a central square built over the (still partially visible in places) remains of a Roman amphitheatre. This was a place to walk narrow streets and discover little shops and restaurants.

And Florence, of course, where the shock of once again being in a world city with millions of people and diversity after what’s been nearly six years living in a small village now, was quickly overtaken by the awe of the beauty and scale of the art and architecture in this birthplace of the Renaissance. It’s a place where money was spent on making beautiful things simply because wealthy and powerful families thought that’s how it should be, rather than solely for the glory of the Church. If you’re into this stuff, Florence is an absolute must-see.

Here we are, home again, with Carnival looming and the fulion already resounding in the town square in the evenings. Though I love the travels, and I’m particularly missing going to Brighton & Hove Albion with my friends and brother right now, when we’re better than we’ve ever been, during Carnival there’s no place I’d rather be than Viana.

Los hábitos son fáciles de crear y difíciles de romper. Eso es lo que me ha pasado últimamente con este blog, ya que he caído en el hábito de pensar en escribir artículos en lugar de escribirlos realmente, y luego considerar que era demasiado tarde para poner en palabras lo que quería escribir una vez que finalmente se me ocurrió hacerlo.

También me preocupa que resulte un poco egoísta cuando se trata de mis viajes con mi pareja, por ejemplo, que es últimamente de lo que más tengo que hablar. En octubre hicimos una pequeña gira por Andalucía, conociendo una parte de España en la que nunca había estado. Vimos algunos lugares de increíble belleza, tanto naturales como artificiales, ricos en historia y de gran relevancia en la historia de España y de Europa. Saqué algunas fotos de algunas de estas cosas, aunque nunca refleja la verdadera belleza de la realidad, pondré algo de eso en la próxima entrada. 

Pero empecé a escribir esto en el avión, de vuelta de un viaje de una semana y pico a Italia. Le propuse a mi otra mitad pasar un fin de semana largo en Siena, un lugar del que me habían hablado muy bien y que me apetecía visitar. Ella cogió la idea y la convirtió rápidamente en nueve días que incluían Florencia -una de nuestras ciudades favoritas-, Siena, Pisa, Lucca y varios lugares más, viajando en tren. Así que, a pesar de las malas previsiones meteorológicas, nos pusimos en marcha.

Los que me conocen bien saben que la cocina italiana es mi favorita. Sería feliz comiendo pasta todos los días de mi vida, y una buena Carbonara sería mi última comida, si alguna vez me encontrara en esa desafortunada situación. Así que siempre soy una persona muy feliz y un poco más regordeta cuando volvemos de Italia, y esta vez no ha sido una excepción. Unas cuantas reflexiones sobre lo que vimos y os dejo en paz.

En primer lugar, los trenes. Hay un dicho horrible sobre Mussolini que dice que, sean cuales sean sus defectos, al menos hizo que los trenes funcionaran a su hora. Esto no ofrece una idea preconcebida especialmente positiva del transporte público en el país. Mi experiencia con los trenes italianos, afortunadamente ya desaparecidos, es que son puntuales, bastante fiables y circulan por una extensa red que te llevará prácticamente a cualquier punto del país al que quieras ir.

Pisa. Lo primero en lo que piensas, y posiblemente lo único, es en la torre, por supuesto. Leyendo antes sobre ella, parece que se inclina cuatro grados sobre la vertical. A mí no me pareció gran cosa, y desde el ángulo en que nos acercamos, con la torre inclinada hacia nosotros, no se notaba demasiado. Pero si te pones en el sitio justo, ay caray, se inclina de verdad. Es un edificio impresionante en sí mismo, típico de la grandiosa arquitectura de su época -todo mármol y columnas- y al mismo tiempo atípico en cuanto a que la iglesia, el baptisterio y la torre están separados, cuando normalmente se encuentran combinados en un solo edificio que suaviza la forma cruciforme del contorno de la iglesia. 

Todo el mundo, y digo todo el mundo, hace eso de fingir que la sostiene con las manos en sus fotos. (Yo soy la excepción que confirma la regla, por supuesto.) Hacen cola para hacerlo. Mi pareja y yo hicimos una pequeña apuesta sobre si un grupo de monjas sudamericanas lo harían; yo decía que no, y perdí. Pero estaba claro que nunca habían visto ninguna foto de lo que intentaban hacer, y todas tenían los brazos en ángulos diferentes. Parecía más el peor baile YMCA del mundo realizado por una despedida de solteras que lo que pretendían.

Por lo demás, Pisa fue bastante agradable, con un casco antiguo que nos mantuvo interesados, pero destacó sobre todo por la pizza increíblemente buena que comimos la última noche antes de volar a casa. ¿Dónde más fuimos? Me alegro de que lo preguntes.

Siena era preciosa. La plaza central, el Campo, donde se celebra el famoso Palio, no me decepcionó; sólo puedo imaginarme cómo es cuando se llena del sonido y la furia de los días de carrera. Desde allí, un viaje en autobús a San Gimignano, el Manhattan de la Toscana, un pequeño lugar donde las familias medievales adineradas se dedicaban a hacer tejemanejes financieros de tipo arquitectónico, compitiendo por ver quién tenía la torre más impresionante. Así que el paisaje de la Toscana se llena de rascacielos al estilo neoyorquino en lo que no es más que un punto en el mapa. A pesar de que en verano se llena de turistas, cuando fuimos estaba desierta y muy tranquila.

Lucca, donde los lugareños recorren a pie o en bicicleta los 4 km de perímetro de las murallas intactas de la misma época. Un pequeño lugar dentro de esas murallas, con una plaza central construida sobre los restos (aún parcialmente visibles en algunos lugares) de un anfiteatro romano. Un lugar para pasear por callejuelas estrechas y descubrir pequeñas tiendas y restaurantes.

Y Florencia, por supuesto, donde el shock de volver a estar en una ciudad mundial con millones de personas y diversidad después de lo que ahora han sido casi seis años viviendo en un pequeño pueblo, fue rápidamente superado por el asombro ante la belleza y la escala del arte y la arquitectura de esta cuna del Renacimiento. Es un lugar donde el dinero se gastaba en hacer cosas bellas simplemente porque las familias ricas y poderosas pensaban que así debía ser, en lugar de hacerlo únicamente por la gloria de la Iglesia. Si te gustan estas cosas, Florencia es una visita obligada.

Aquí estamos, de nuevo en casa, con el Carnaval a las puertas y el fulión resonando ya en la plaza del pueblo por las noches. Aunque me encantan los viajes, y echo especialmente de menos ir al Brighton & Hove Albion con mis amigos y mi hermano ahora mismo, cuando estamos mejor que nunca, durante el Carnaval no hay lugar en el que prefiera estar que en Viana.

The sardine has exploded - it must be all over for another year.

So, the big finale. In Brazil, they mark Mardi Gras with huge, glamorous parades and elaborate costumes. In New Orleans they throw beads into the crowd, decorate coconuts and bake cakes with tiny baby figurines in them, purportedly to represent Jesus. Here, the flouring reaches its epic climax, the folion all come together for the burning of the lardeiros and a funeral is held for a giant sardine. (I know. I'll come back to that later.)

I've never been to Glastonbury but veterans all seem to talk about the mud years. Well here in Viana the rain, if it comes on the Tuesday as it did this year, turns the ground not into mud but glue. We'd been lucky so far this year but on Tuesday it absolutely shat down, thinning the numbers who'd usually attend - people don't want to ruin €300+ drums - and ensuring anybody who did attend will be picking rock-hard globules of solidified flour out of their hair and ears for the next couple of days, regardless of how assiduously they try to wash them out.

The lardeiros, as I've said in earlier entries, are the Carnival made manifest, and they're set ablaze at midnight on Shrove Tuesday (or Mardi Gras, or Fat Tuesday, or whatever you want to call it), bringing the flour attacks to a close. As you can imagine this makes people go all out to get the last flourings in for another year. Usually pretty much anybody who has a drum or an aixada will be there, beating the folion as the Lardeiros burn. It's a pretty visceral experience even when the square isn't completely packed because of the weather. This film is from 2012:

The world feels like it's shaking with the noise - the thunder of drums and trowels being struck is absolutely deafening. Bangers and aerosols placed inside the effigies pop and explode while this is happening. How are they set on fire? I'm glad you asked. In a move which would give any H&S exec in Britain palpitations, a bloke who may or may not have had a couple of cold drinks himself is hoisted up to the figures on the back of one of those telescopic platform things, soaks them in something highly flammable like petrol or whatever it is, and then torches them using a long, burning stick from the ground.

And how they burn. What remains is often still smoking well into the next day:

Ouch. Gonna need some cream on that.
Photo: Emilio Ortiz Rodriguez

If the bars were busy on the weekend, they're absolutely heaving on Tuesday. One or two of the bars' owners take the opportunity to close for the night, or part of the night, to have one Carnival night out themselves, forcing more people into fewer bars. I knocked it off at about 2am this year but for most people this is the night that goes on 'til 7 or 8 in the morning. There's usually a band - cancelled this year because of the heavy rain - and a costume competition, and they don't even start until after the lardeiros burn.

Wednesday marks an almost instant return to the village's usual quiet. Immediately there are noticeably fewer people about and the streets are cleaned of the flour. Most bars are closed for a clean-up which takes a good couple of days, and some remain closed for a few days' well-earned rest. It just leaves the sardine funeral to the year-rounders or the few who hang back beyond the end of Carnival.

Oh yes, the sardine funeral. In another pyromaniacal episode, a six-foot-long sardine, constructed of a cage wrapped in tin foil and, once again, filled with explosive materials, is mounted on a trailer and paraded through the town. Locals follow, in funereal black, lamenting the sardine's passing. When it reaches the designated spot in the Cabo da Vila, the old town surrounding the castle, it burns in similar fashion to the lardeiros while people stand ludicrously close to it and await the comestibles. Free red wine is distributed liberally, and real sardines - barbecued on an enormous fire at the scene and served on bread - are consumed in large numbers.

At the end there are torrijas, a sort of cinnamony French toast. These are not much to look at but they're absolutely delicious and many of the locals make them, meaning each one you sample is slightly different from the one before. I can't tell you how many of these I can wolf down but my record doesn't bear imparting here, on account of the shame it would bring me to report it.

A stroll back down the hill for a coffee in the nearest bar and that really is it. All over bar the blogging, until the sound of the folion beats over the village early next year and heralds the coming of another Carnival. The locals hold a funeral, I think, because they feel genuinely sad for Carnival's passing. Its importance to them finds arcane expression by this burning of the sardine effigy, and if that doesn't seem to make any sense, then you need to come out here and experience this for yourself to see what I mean.

Waiter? I say? There are bones in my sausage and my liqueur's on fire.

I mentioned that Sunday is a big day in Carnival. It's oddly timed, following (as Sundays tend to) what for most people is a long, boozy Saturday night, but that's just how it goes at this time of year. Deal with the hangover, get up to the town and partake of the hair of the dog which bit you. You can't miss the parade.

Viana do Bolo is the name of the county, for the want of a better word, in which our village sits, as well as the name of the village itself. It actually comprises around 52 villages of varying sizes, ranging from tiny hamlets of just a few dozen people up to Viana itself. In terms of geographical extent, Viana do Bolo is actually one of the largest counties in Spain, albeit one of the least populated. Many of those villages have their own folion, their own drum beat, and they go visiting each other during the week to drum and enjoy the hospitality, given freely, of the locals. But on the last Sunday, everybody comes to Viana to join the parade.

Each village's folion will come down behind a banner proclaiming from where they've come. From the top of the town they come down through the village, stopping to drum at the main square, and then up to marquees alongside the sports hall for a lunch laid on by the council. Many of them come in bright costumes, and some also put together a carroza, what we'd call a float. That is to condemn the things with a wildly inadequate description, however, because some of these can be absolutely extraordinary. The good people of Quintela can usually be relied upon to deliver here.

This tank, which fired sweets at everybody, is from 2015:

And this, in my view the most spectacular of all, is from last year:

I have no idea how long these things must take to put together but can only imagine they work on them all year. This year's carroza from the Alternativos, a group from Viana itself, was a merry-go-round mounted on the back of a car, revolving as they went. Amazing work, done out of a love of Carnival and for no other reason.

You also get a decent look at the boteiros in the first video, whose crowd control job I wrote about in this entry. As you can see the square is rammed. This is pre-lunch, so there's a roaring trade in vermouth as well as beers and coffee. Many of the bars lose a decent percentage of their glasses during Carnival because people buy their drink, take it outside and never bring it back, moving on to another bar as is the custom here. It's clearly worth the losses, though, because there are more customers about now than at almost any point during the year.

So, to lunch. As I said, those in the parade have grub laid on for them, but everybody else has to make their own arrangements. Many try to cram in one of the few local restaurants. Others have a big feast at a friend's house, gathering in a bodega. For those fortunate enough to have been able to secure tickets, it's the Festa do Androlla, which will be celebrating 50 years in 2020. Androlla is a large, reddish sausage, spiced with paprika. It's a local thing, hugely popular here, but wouldn't be to everybody's taste I think. It contains, you see, large chunks of bone, better to infuse the thing with flavour. It also turns the water in which it's boiled for an hour and a half a deep, bloody red. For the squeamish it isn't. It's typically served with grelos (turnip leaves) and boiled potatoes, but is only one of four courses at the Festa.

So about 1300 people gather in the local sports hall, to enjoy soup, then the Androlla, then lacon, a salty, gammony bacon, then bica, the local cake. Each of these courses is repeated - that is, the dozens of waiters serving the long tables come round with them offering seconds each time. This is supposed to start at 2.30 for a 3pm opening course, but this is Spain after all. The parade will last over two hours and usually runs late anyway. This year's first course was served at almost 4pm. People don't seem to mind too much - there's wine on the table and friends to catch up with.

Androlla, grelos, spuds, chorizo and lacon. Twice.
Plus three other courses, obviously. 

Galicians are a gregarious bunch normally, but this is a particularly bad spot if you happen to be suffering a hangover headache. Often the local folion beat will be drummed on the tables, the sound of a thousand spoons cacophonous and deafening. When the waiting staff first stream into the hall with the soup course, whoops and cheers greet them. Often a group of folion or bagpipers will march in to accompany the coffee and liqueurs which round off the thing. It's raucous, informal, friendly and strongly recommended as an experience. 

The sound of this lot beating the tables with their spoons has to be heard to be believed.

This actually represents a slightly trimmed down version of what used to be served, by the way. It sounds ludicrous but I really miss the slow-roasted lamb, served with lettuce in a vinegary dressing, that used to be served as well! You didn't need breakfast or dinner when you had a ticket for the Festa then. Or breakfast the next day.

To help with the feeling of being full fit to burst, a queimada is served last. This is a local fire water, the fire bit being quite literal, which burns brightly in large cauldrons until ready. To say it'd put hairs on your chest would be to understate its power. It's very, very strong stuff but at least sears off the feeling of not being able to move and enables people to file out and head home.

This is pretty much always a cue for me to roll downhill to the house for a siesta, but apparently lots of people head out for more drumming and more drinking after this. I may be used to Carnival by now, this being my 18th I think, but I really don't know how anybody who eats at the Festa is capable of going out and getting back on it afterwards.

Apparently on Monday there's a children's parade and free hot chocolate in the square but I can't honestly say I go out much on the Mondays if I've been to the Festa do Androlla because I just lop around in the house feeling full up and making plans to diet. You have to be ready, after all, for Tuesday, the biggest night of them all.

Comadre mia!

So Thursday was comadres, the day the women have free rein to go after the men and one of the biggest nights of the Carnival. It is, fairly understandably, a much bigger night in terms of numbers of people going out than compadres. On Wednesday night, at midnight, the Lardeira is hoisted into place alongside her male counterpart. The ladies then have 24 hours of flouring without comeback from the lads. This is an appalling photo - sorry - but gives some impression at least. As you can see, they've both been amended so they're now more typically - how can I put this? - profane.

The word Carnival has its roots in the Latin 'carnem' or
'carn-', meaning 'flesh'. That carnal route is still
pretty evident in the Lardeiros.

On Thursday, generally, groups of women will gather in themed fancy dress, organise a large dinner somewhere and then hit the bars for copas and dancing. Flour and folion are of course much in evidence too. It can be a long night for many - I certainly woke up with an inexplicable(!) headache on Friday. Staying out 'til six or seven in the morning is not uncommon, though age and drink-lightweight tendencies mean I don't last until such rarefied hours.

A note on the flour. Nobody has been able to give me a definitive answer on when it started, or why. There are conflicting theories, but it's certainly old, and it's (to my knowledge) confined to a small corner of Galicia. Traditions evolve, of course, but the classic delivery should be a handful applied to the face, below the nose, and rubbed in from ear to ear, preferably catching the victim completely by surprise. You should go home with the bottom half of your face completely white, like you've been bobbing for apples in a basin full of cocaine. A clean face at the end of such an evening doesn't say much for your popularity. (Or it speaks well of your powers of evasion and sprint speed).

I have of course seen variations on this theme. Some young'uns (tsk) pull a trailer around behind a 4x4 and hurl flourballs of the white stuff in crunched up newspaper. And a couple of years back another wrinkle caught out acquaintances of ours - we had to meet a Brit and an American who were friends of friends, who'd heard about this and came to see it. Though we didn't know them, they were easy to spot - wearing clean, respectable clothes, standing still in the square watching what was happening with bewildered faces, they made easy targets. We'd barely had a chance to introduce ourselves before the American found herself deposited into a bath, filled with flour and being dragged around town, to better enfariñar anybody who caught the eye of the group pulling it. She emerged looking like a ghost version of herself. 'Welcome to Carnival', I thought, but they both later distinguished themselves with how well they threw themselves into the whole thing.

The town is full, and the bars are full, like almost no other time of year. Pretty much everybody comes home for this - we've already spoken to friends who've come back from Madrid and London. Others are arriving this weekend from Vigo, from Valladolid, from wherever they may be. The rooms in our house will all be full of visitors in need of a bed for the night.

It's difficult to overstate quite how important this is to people here, who take great pride in its genuine tradition (this is not something made up to coincide with Carnival to attract visitors, as happens in many enterprising councils), and they wouldn't miss it for anything. I've been told of a Vianese living in Valladolid years ago who, unable to get time off work to come home for Carnival, couldn't contain himself and got into 'legal difficulty' for flouring somebody in that city who obviously had no idea what this nutcase was doing.

Today will be a bit quieter, but tonight is obviously a very big night, not being a 'school night' for 99%. As late as we may turn it in this evening, Sunday is a big one. The folion parade and the Festa do Androlla are not to be missed. I'll tell you about that Festa in the next entry, as any cacophonous celebration of a large, bony sausage is deserving of its own entry. (And no, that wasn't a joke.)

And so it begins

I've just been served coffee by a mate of mine, a fairly strapping fellow, dressed in a long, black, sleeveless dress. (He's dressed like that - not me. I'm not that confident even at Carnival). He completed his ensemble with a gold hair clasp and some, to my ignorant eyes at least, expertly applied make-up.

Why this departure from his usually more conventional attire? Because today is compadres, of course, and it marks the first day when the flour throwing kicks in. It's a big day. Special occasion like that, man's got to dress up.

Last night, at midnight, the male Lardeiro was paraded from the top of the town down to the main square, accompanied by folion of course, and hoisted into place above the plaza. Almost immediately, any females present were liberally floured by lads who'd come suitably armed with kilo bags of the white stuff secreted about their person, and those ladies had no recourse to flour back. Today only, this coeliacs' nightmare battle of the sexes is entirely pitched in favour of the men and boys. Tomorrow, a normal free-for-all applies. Next Thursday the female version, the Lardeira, will take her place alongside her mate and the women and girls will have the day to themselves - any male venturing out on comadres accepts the risk of enflourment without comeback.

Brits would call a Lardeiro a Guy, or an effigy. They're the embodiment of Carnival, destined to go up in flames at midnight on Mardi Gras, signalling an end to the seasonal silliness. A sort of Olympic torch in reverse, if you will. Traditionally they were attired in clothes pinched from unsuspecting 'donors', though  I'm told that doesn't happen any more and the clothes are simply worn out, given freely. Their ultimate fate is a spectacular one - they're not just stuffed with rags and newspaper. Their bodies are essentially chicken-wire cages, into which fireworks, bangers and empty aerosol cans are stuffed. The Health and Safety people back in the UK would pass out at how they're made, how they're set aflame and how they're watched as they meet their fate.

You'll have to wait a week, old boy.
She'll be along in due course.

Crossing the square to get to the bar for my coffee, it already looks like it's been snowing. Chaos reigns as shrieking kids run about in fancy dress, boys covering girls' faces in flour, white-faced mums and clean-faced dads watching on in some cases. Today I was able to wear clean, new clothing and walk confidently across the plaza, knowing I wouldn't be targeted. From tomorrow that journey will have to be made at a run, wearing clothing I don't care if I can never don again.

All bets will be off until the Lardeiros burn, and it'll be safe to go out again, it all being over for another year. Apart from the funeral for the giant sardine, of course. More on that at the time.

Yes yes yes - but can it hold a tune?

We're all familiar with the agony of choice when it comes to purchasing our latest trowel head. Who hasn't, doing their routine shop at the ironmonger, stood by the rack wondering which size, which material, which brand? Will the cheapy one do? But the ground's really hard right now, maybe I should go with the professional one at three times the money? I'm sure I don't need to go into detail - you're all trowel-head aficionados here. In Viana it's rather different. When buying a trowel head here, you have to think about Carnival first, and everything else a distant second.

I've mentioned Carnival in passing on here a few times already, and intend to use this year's to write a few entries to go into more detail. For an excellent, rather more articulate outsider's view on Carnival, I recommend Flour on the Skin, a documentary made by a friend of ours a few years back, featuring my missus in front of the camera. Well the Carnival atmosphere in the village is growing already, and the most obvious sign of this is the sound of the folion, the booming beats of the locals' drums and aixadas, rhythms which have become extremely familiar to me.

There are various folion groups, though essentially anybody can play with any group they hook up with. (It's not, of course, quite that cut and dried, and I've learned that something so important to locals is not without its own politics.) They all have two basic ingredients in common, though - large wooden drums, made by locals and both skinned and shoulder-strapped with local animal hides, and aixadas; trowel heads. If you don't fancy lugging a bloody great drum around all evening, or don't have the several hundred Euros each one costs, or simply prefer to play the trowel head, it's the aixada you'll take out with you.

Here's one of ours:

Essential folion kit for the drumless. Note the carry rope made of old
shopping bags - nothing wasted here - and the marks made by hitting
the aixada with the hammer.

As you can imagine, these make a hell of a noise, bringing me back to my original point. It seems that in Viana, if you're my missus at least, you buy your aixada as much for its sound as for any other quality. Exclusively for its sound, in fact, since we have no other use for this item. So it was that last week I found myself at the ironmongers, somewhat incredulously listening to various trowel heads being struck in an effort to determine which had the sweeter note. The ironmonger Jorge, an important figure for the Carnival locally, being heavily involved in organising many of the events associated with it, thought there was absolutely nothing out of the ordinary about this.

I asked him only part-seriously if he sold more trowels for use as percussion than for use in the local farms, and he told me unhesitatingly that there was no doubt this was indeed the case.

I personally prefer to drum rather than go with the trowel. There's something truly visceral about your chest cavity vibrating to the beat of these things, and they can transport the drummers; many of the drum skins are mottled with the blood of the drummers' hands, so carried away do they get with beating them.  When hundreds turn up at once, as they do on the last night of Carnival, Mardi Gras, for the ceremonial burning of the Lardeiros (more on them in a later entry) it can feel like something out of a film. The combination of the huge drum beats, fire, fireworks exploding and flour drifting in the air at the same time is something that truly has to be experienced to be properly appreciated.

Friends who've come here for this, particularly from Britain, have described it in awed terms, leaving wide-eyed and exhausted at the end. Very few people here don't get absolutely animated and excited for it when it comes round. I'll try to give a small flavour of it over the next few entries.

Drums, please

I've probably mentioned the frenzy of flour throwing that happens around here in the build-up to Mardi Gras, and will do so again shortly. It's all part of the Latin world's celebration of Carnival which closes as Lent begins, and it's kind of started already.

A couple of weekends back, various groups were invited to Viana from all over Spain to participate in La Mascarada, a parade of fulions (the locals' various drum beats) and masked costumery of all kinds. It's kind of a cultural exchange, showcasing in another town what you all do yourselves during Carnival. The people who were good enough to come and visit all did so out of a love of Carnival and a desire to showcase their own celebrations, and for no financial rewards at all. It was a clear demonstration of how important these annual rituals are that they'd come so far for just a couple of days, some of them sleeping in the local sports hall, to do this.

I've now seen so many of these parades that none of what happens comes as even a vague surprise, but I do wonder how this must look to anybody who's never seen it. The images here, used with the kind permission of local photographer J Luis Ortiz, give a much better impression than anything I could write as to what goes on. As for the sound of the huge drums being beaten to the various Galician villages' own rhythms, you'll have to trust me that you can quite literally feel your entire chest cavity vibrating to the beat. More on those in another entry later - the drums are hugely important to the locals and deserving of their own entry and images.

The first sign that the parade has started (other than the approaching thunder of the drumming, of course) is the sound of bells. Then these guys come charging down the road, clearing the path for the coming parade. 

Boteiros - crowd control Carnival style. Photo: J Luis Ortiz.

The headwear these Boteiros sport are all, of course, hand-made, and can weigh anything up to 20kg. Many of them wear neck braces under the masks to help support the weight, but I've seen just how tiring it is running up and down and pole vaulting with their sticks with that kind of weight on their heads. I'd be surprised if they don't all finish each Carnival a couple of inches shorter.

Once the route's been cleared, the Boteiros shuttling back and forth keeping people back, down come the various groups. If they're from this part of Galicia the group will almost certainly include drummers beating the fulion, but those from elsewhere come in all kinds of finery, from Guadalajaran devils wearing real cows' horns, potato chunks cut into bizarre teeth shapes jutting from their mouths, to whatever this is;

"Where are you taking this... thing?" One for Star Wars fans there. Photo: J Luis Ortiz.

I couldn't see where these horsemen and women came from - each group carries a small sign naming their home town - but they stopped in the main square and challenged each other to a sort of saddled poetry-off. I'd love to tell you what they said but it was all in Gallego, which I still sadly lack as a language, and it was in any case all but impossible to hear them over the cacophony of cow bells, drums and inflated animal bladders being used for percussion.

"Speak up! I can't hear a thing..." Photo: J Luis Ortiz.

The arrival of Viana do Bolo's own 'Alternativo' fulion group signals the end of the parade, and it breaks up into various impromptu drinking and drumming sessions. Everybody who's been part of it heads up to the top of the town, where food and drink has been laid on for them in the sports hall. Later, after a couple of cold drinks in town overnight - it was a Saturday after all - they go and do the same thing again in another village a few miles away, before heading home for their own Carnival celebrations. As for Viana, we can all expect to have our faces covered in flour pretty much as soon as February starts - much more on that in a later entry.

Yeah those aren't balloons. The were once inside a cow and they make a lot of
noise when they're banged together. Photo: J Luis Ortiz.

(Incidentally, as regularly as I've attended this sort of thing now, I was still told by one of the local kids that I 'looked really English' after the parade simply because I was wearing a long, black coat and carrying an umbrella. It was bloody raining!)

See? I told you it was raining. I was hardly the only person carrying a brolly.
Photo: J Luis Ortiz.